


Snowflakes and adjectives

by internationalprincess



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-06
Updated: 2002-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/internationalprincess/pseuds/internationalprincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time number two was when you came over after the State of the Union…”</p><p>2002 Jeds - Third Place - Outstanding Josh/Amy</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowflakes and adjectives

He looks as if maybe he had fallen asleep on the couch. He's still wearing his work clothes, but his  
shirt is rumpled, and his hair is standing up all over the place. He's blinking rapidly in that way she  
herself does when startled awake, by the phone, by adoorbell.

He also looks confused.

"What...what are you doing here?"

"Are you going to let me in? Your hallway is cold."

He nods a little too slowly and steps to one side. His apartment is dark as she passes into it. The only  
light is coming from two television sets playing different news channels, each with the volume down  
low. She looks around, takes in the bottle of scotch on the end table, his tie pooled in a silk heap on the  
floor.

She sits down on one end of his couch, but he remains standing.

"Do you...want a drink or something?"

She tries to assess his mood, wondering if he is being cautious with her, or whether he is still in the  
process of waking up.

"Scotch will be fine. Straight, no ice."

He wanders into the kitchen to fetch her a glass, and the physical distance between them seems to free him  
up to speak.

"Where did you dump the Congressman?"

"He had another reception he wanted to go to."

"One with no cameras?"

She sighs. "J..."

He almost manages to look contrite as he returns to stand in front of her and pour her drink. He looks at  
her and not the level in the glass.

"I...I didn't mean that. Well...no, actually I did. But...you know..."

He hands her the glass and refills his own, sinking into the opposite end of the couch with his back  
leaning against the arm so that he is facing her. She begins to feel exposed. She fidgets with the hem of  
her dress. Being here seems like less of a good idea to her than it had on the drive over.

"What is this about, J?"

"Huh?"

She turns so that she is facing him too, allowing one of her shoes to slide off her foot and slip to the  
floor, so that she can draw her leg up and tuck it under herself.

"I don't get it. Were you worried that you didn't have a competitive advantage? Worried that if you didn't  
undermine John I wouldn't choose you of my own accord?"

She speaks slowly, gestures at him idly with her scotch glass as she talks. Her voice is strained from  
an evening of small talk and second-hand cigar smoke. Her face feels tired from forcing a smile.

He breaks her gaze for the first time since he sat he down. She finds herself looking at the top of his  
head.

"I told you I was pretty clueless at all of this," he says quietly, finally looking up again. "Donna tells  
me I just let women crash into me sideways, and then wait for them to break up with me."

She lets out a mirthless laugh. He can only manage a small, rueful smile.

"I guess I was...treating this the way I would a political problem. They're the only kind I know how to  
solve...."

He trails off, looks over at the television set.

She gets the impression he isn't thinking about her anymore. It occurs to her that she hasn't given him  
much credit for what he must have been going through lately. The hearings, the censure, the State of the  
Union.

"How did we get to be these people, J? When did we stop being those kids we were in the dorm, and begin  
being people whose idea of a normal day involves national media attention, the 82nd Airborne, or the  
fate of Thai prostitutes?"

He isn't put off by the change of subject. This is the way they are both used to conversing. Quick-fire,  
complex, pointed. So many words to describe the way they are with each other, the way they crawl under one  
another's skin.

She remembers reading somewhere of a kiss that 'tasted like snowflakes and adjectives'. Kissing Josh on his  
front stoop had been like that. He takes another sip of his drink, and when he speaks she can smell it in  
the air between them. If she kisses him tonight he will taste like fire and verbs, she thinks.

"Do you remember that night we were eating pizza and playing drinking games with that disgusting grappa  
Annabelle had brought back from Italy? And we made a pact that the person who was the most powerful by the  
time we were forty would have to take all the others out to dinner at the restaurant of their choice  
anywhere in the world."

She lets her mind wander. She barely remembers who Annabelle was. She wonders why this evening has stuck  
in Josh's head.

"Chris was pretty sure it would be him. But then you looked at me and you said, 'I guarantee it will be J'.  
And I asked you why you thought that, but you just downed your grappa in one go, and refused to elaborate."

Slowly the memory is coming back to her as well.

"You and ... Annabelle? You had a fight that night, didn't you? After we had gone to bed. She broke up  
with you."

"I called her 'Amy' at a crucial moment."

She hasn't expected this, and she feels a blush heat her face.

"When you were shot, I went to the hospital."

He looks up in surprise.

"They wouldn't let me in, of course, but I stood there, outside for a while. I didn't know what else  
to do."

"You never told me...I mean...when I was better. You never called."

She shakes her head.

"John loves me, you know. Whatever you say about him or his motives."

It is Josh's turn to sigh. He kneads his eyes with the heel of his free hand, and takes another belt of  
scotch.

"Is that what you came over here to tell me? That it's true love, and I should leave you alone?"

"I said he loved *me*, I didn't say I loved him."

She extends a hand toward him across the expanse of couch and tangles fingers with him. Not really  
holding hands, just touching. The merest of contact. She thinks she could sit like this with him for the  
longest time. In his dark apartment, with the world confined to the glowing set across the room.

He studies their joined hands, running a thumb across her palm, causing her to shiver even though the  
alcohol and his touch have made her warm.

"You want me to tell you that you're right," she says, "and that he's not really interested in me. But if I  
did that? If I stopped seeing him because of what you told me, J? What would you do?"

"I'm not asking you to break up with him."

She knows this. She knows instinctively that his twisted logic doesn't want her seeing John, but  
doesn't want her to leave John either. That would imply a commitment he has no idea how to give.

She also knows that there will come a time in Josh's career when he will find himself in John's position.  
He'll be running for the House, or the Senate, and he'll realise what an advantage it would be to be  
married. She wonders if he will marry for expedience, for love, or for the polling numbers.

Instead she simply says, "I know."

"I mean this..." he waves his glass between the two of them, "might be a thing. But we don't know yet, right?  
I mean...so far I've only kissed you."

"I kissed you."

"Details."

He smiles at her, as if the sheer force of his dimples alone will win her heart.

She doesn't think she has ever felt lonelier.

He tugs on her hand, swinging his legs up onto the couch, drawing her alongside him. She lays her cheek  
on his chest. Imagines the scar beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. He draws absent circles on her  
back.

"There was a time," she says softly, her thoughts competing with c-span in one ear and Josh's heartbeat  
in the other, "when I thought it didn't matter anymore. I had the good job, the high profile, the  
fabulous apartment, the cute dog. Who needs a guy to mess things up?"

"You have a dog?"

"His name is Henry."

"Why?"

"Because it is."

They are silent together. As silent as two people can be who are acutely aware of each other...every breath,  
every point of contact, every caress.

"Do you think I'll mess things up?"

She twists her neck to look up at him. His eyes are dark, and there is sadness there, a sense of  
inevitability about it all, insecurity. She tries to think of a way to allay his fears and can't, so she  
responds honestly.

"Pretty much."

He nods at her, as if having his fallibility confirmed is somehow a comfort to him. As if he has been let  
off the hook. He leans down and captures her mouth in a kiss, and she realises in an instant that she was  
right about how Josh would taste.

And as his hand slips slowly under the hem of her dress, her loneliness dissipates, and she feels  
suddenly consumed by possibility.


End file.
